Overdose
by Naika Grover
Summary: When twenty-year old Sherlock Holmes attempts suicide, he does not realize the effect it has on everyone around him. Reviews will be appreciated.
1. Actions

_Still haven't found me, have you Mycroft? –SH_

_That is not your concern. Your concern is to fabricate a good alibi for Mummy when she returns. –MH_

_Brother dear, if only you would look at yourself. Weak; always listening to Mummy; So emotional. –SH_

_Come back Sherlock. There is no use trying to hide from us. –MH_

_Hide? I never wanted to hide. I know you know my location. –SH_

_Sherlock, stop doing those drugs. You know how badly they affect your body. –MH_

_It is my choice. There is no need to bother with my life, Mycroft. –MH_

_Sherlock Holmes! You are coming back right now, else I will let you die on the sidewalk, exactly like the homeless person you are imitating. –MH_

_You don't have to worry now. –SH_

Mycroft Holmes panicked. Sherlock Holmes was moody, but never emotional. And right now, he was emotional. Emotions usually spelt trouble for the younger Holmes. He quickly contacted his new Personal Assistant, Anthea.

_Take a car and pick up Sherlock from the co-ordinates I sent you. Inform me about his condition. –MH_

_Yes Sir –A_

About thirteen minutes and twenty four seconds passed till he got a new text message from his PA.

_Sherlock Holmes located. Status: Unconscious. Possible due to drug overdose. Being transported to St. Barthomelew's Hospital immeadiately._

"Dear god Sherlock. What have you got yourself into this time?"

Doctor John Watson was not in a good mood. He had just been informed that his sister, Harry, was having an upset stomach and a terrible hangover by her girlfriend, Clara. Two out of the four patients he was treating died under his care. Not that they would have survived anyways. But sometimes, he wished they did.

He dismissed such thoughts. After all, if one had to be an army doctor, one had to get used to the deaths outnumbering the living.

Being an intern was not easy for him. He had to look after his mother, and his sister. Both got onto his nerves, which was a feat no one else could perform.

His head snapped up as he heard the sound of an ambulance approaching. Good, another case. He could use this as a distraction from his life. Other than the fact that he was accepted into the army, there was really nothing else for him to look forward to.

Ah, the perks of being an intern.

The ambulance stopped right outside the emergency exit. The doctors wheeled out a tall young man with dark curly hair, possibly twenty one, unconscious, from the car, followed almost immediately by a young lady, well dressed, who looked concerned, but could not keep her eyes off her mobile phone. Strange couple.

" What is his status?"

" He had two cardiac arrests on the way. Cocaine overdose. Was a regular junkie, but took a really major hit this time." One of the doctors smiled sadly at this.

John did not like it either. Why did anyone have to do drugs?

The trauma team wheeled the young man in, preparing to resuscitate him when his heart stopped again.

About eight minutes from the time Anthea messaged him about Sherlock's condition, Mycroft reached St. Bart's hospital. He almost jumped out, and ran towards the waiting area, where he saw Anthea sitting with a distressed look on her face. He went towards her with a questioning look.

"He had three cardiac arrests since we found him. The doctors say that if he gets too many, his heart would be too weak to continue on its own, therefore giving rise to possibly a pacemaker, and a healthier lifestyle." Anthea told the older Holmes.

Mycroft just sat down in one of the waiting chairs. What was wrong with Sherlock? Why could he just keep off the drugs and nicotine?

" Anthea, get me information about his attending, his doctor, his records, charts everything. I need to see if this was a suicide attempt."

" Yes sir"

" Keep me updated about him. I need to go."

" Sure sir. I will."

Mycroft got up from the seat, and was going to take a step towards the threshold when he heard the speakers crackle to life, and a woman's voice call out, " All doctors, come to Room 221, B-wing."

Mycroft turned to Anthea to ask what was Sherlock's room number, when he noticed that her normally ruddy face was drained of blood, and she had the look of one in pain. He realised that the room was none other than Sherlock's.

Mycroft ran up the stairs, following directions, dodging doctors, all while thinking about Sherlock's attempt at overdose. He reached the door of the room to see it swamped with doctors, all trying to revive a boy of twenty, with dark curly hair. He was too pale, too fragile to look at, and not moving at all, as the doctors around him put tubes, injections, everything to start his heart again, to keep it beating. Mycroft took a glance at the monitor. He had flat-lined.

He sat down with a huff on the nearest chair, as though someone had suddenly kicked him hard. Sherlock was possibly dead.


	2. Memories

John did not enjoy this on bit.

_Breathe. Oh, please, just breathe. Don't Stop. Keep your heart beating. Don't die, kid. Don't you dare die on me..Not today.. not ever…_

_One, two,three,four. Break. One, two,three,four. Break. One,two,three,four._

John kept the count in his head. He did not want another death on his watch. Not such a young death, at any rate. But the kid's heart failed to respond. Agitated, he began calling out drugs that would initiate some response from the muscular organ. People scurried around him as he kept up the chest compressions, only letting go when they had to apply the paddles.

The man's tall, skinny frame suddenly looked very delicate, as if made of porcelain. It seemed that if he touched him, he would break. John did not like this one bit. This man was supposed to be young, healthy, happy, living his life out to the fullest, not dying in the prime of his youth. He began the compressions again.

After seven minutes of intense agitation, and pressure, Sherlock's heart began to beat again. Faintly at first, but soon it picked up, thanks to the drugs.

_Thank you, kid. Thank you._

John almost sighed in relief. So far, so good.

He went out of the room, to see a well dressed man sitting in one of the chairs, wearing an expression of one who just lost something valuable due to utter carelessness. He ignored the man, until he came up to the doctor, and spoke.

" How is he now?"

A relative then.

"He is fine. Though very weak. Are you related to him somehow? His brother, perhaps?"

The other man nodded. Strange, he seemed composed all of a sudden.

" If you can just fill this form out for hi-"

"Oh, you can give that to my assistant. But I think she has already filled it out."

John shrugged. It all made sense now. That kid was a high society kid. His family was moneyed, and he would not be caring a damn about anybody else, or their feelings. He would have easily gotten those drugs, an overdosed on it. Though, while going through the files, later in his office, he noticed that the amount taken was very specific. The exact amount needed to kill a person, without excruciating side effects. Yet, all that it did to this man was stop his heart. Strange.

About an hour later, John was livid. Here was a person, throwing away a glorious life just for recreational drug usage. He despised such people. If only that person knew what each and every life was worth. He decided to give the young man a talking down, once he was conscious.

Mycroft sat on the sofa in the room, where Sherlock was situated. His brother seemed almost, peaceful. Just like how he used to. Mycroft bit back an uncharacteristic lump in his throat.

Sherlock was not an ordinary person. He was brilliant, and he knew it. He had always excelled in everything he tried his hand at. He was also the ideal child, brother and student. He knew the rules of society well, though he tried to avoid going out in public as much as it was possible. He did not like the etiquettes, but that could be forgiven, for he was rarely found at a public gathering where such things mattered. Truly, he was one of a kind. That was before he took to stimulants.

It started with the smoking. He could be found always puffin away, while his experiments would run. At first, his family ignored it, thinking of it to just another phase that would pass. But, it gradually increased. Then, one day, when Mycroft had to bring back a much drugged Sherlock to the hospital, he realised that his brother was too far gone to be brought back.

Sherlock always pushed himself to the limits in everything. He always wanted to cross the breaking point, see how long he could last. He was quite good at it too. Once, he even tried to see how long could he survive without food. He lasted five days, until, one the sixth day, he collapsed, and had to be hospitalised again.

Mycroft smiled a little at an old memory. Of a small and chubby Sherlock, all of seven, dressed as a pirate captain, wielding a wooden sword that Mycroft had crafted for him. He used to wear the funniest clothes, and put a handkerchief over his eye to complete the look. He even had a pet parrot. His smile slowly vanished as his memories took him from the days of the pirate captain to the days of the wasted mongrel. He was just a shadow of his past self. Mycroft had to do something about this, before he actually succeeded in killing himself.

He heard footsteps, and then saw the doctor with whom he conversed before open the door. The doctor, or Dr. Watson, as his name tag suggested, had a very stern expression on his face. He looked at Mycroft, and in a low, soft voice that belied his expression, asked him to wait outside, and not to worry, as he was in charge of seeing over Sherlock.

Mycroft was in no state to retort back, so he quietly took leave of his still unconscious brother, and summoned his car, where an anxious Anthea awaited him.

" How is he now?"

Mycroft just shook his head a little, as if to say " Better, but I do not know."

The car drove away from the compound of St. Bart's hospital.


	3. Opinions

Doctor Watson, or John, was livid. He was ready to wake up the unconscious form on the bed, shake him up roughly scream at him, hit him, and call him all the names he could muster. But, instead, he just sat on the corner, kept one eye out for his vitals, and simmered.

About seventeen minutes and thirty three seconds later, John heard Sherlock stir. He got up from his seat in the corner, and came to his side. He decided to call him "curly", because of his curly dark hair.

Sherlock seemed to move more now, and moan something. Something which sounded like " water". John picked up a glass and a jug of water from the bedside, and pouring out some water, he waited for the sleeping form to wake up. But the sleeping form decided to keep squirming and moaning, so John turned around, bored.

Just then, Sherlock sat up, straight in bed, eyes wide with a sort of panic forming on them. He tried calling out something, but nothing came out. John turned around, surprised that Curly was awake, and handed him the glass of water. He took it, and finished it before rasping out for more.

John poured out another glass, a little intrigued this time. After Curly had the water, he made him lie back on the pillows. Then, in a firm voice, he began asking questions.

The last thing Sherlock thought before going under was actually quite funny. It went along the lines of "This should teach Mycroft a lesson". He had not meant to kill himself. Really, that would be just a waste of brilliance. He only took enough to ensure that he was knocked out completely cold. So, it came as no surprise to him when, coming back from consciousness, he could smell a sterile, hospital environment.

He tried to lie on his side, as his back was sore. But his ribs felt as though someone had danced on them, wearing hooves. Painful. Usually he did not feel pain, but this was actually hurting him. He let out a few moans as he adjusted himself on the bed, all too familiar with hospital environs now, considering that he had been in so many of them. Ouch.

He felt something in his nose. Oxygen prongs? He did not need those usually, except for that one time when he had pneumonia. His throat felt rough, like as though somebody had decided to substitute the vocal chords with sandpaper. He tried asking for some water as he slept.

Suddenly, thoughts came rushing into his head. He had a cardiac arrest. He remembered Anthea panicking and calling the ambulance as he struggled to breathe, pain in his chest. He was afraid for a few seconds, afraid that he was dying. Then darkness had washed over him. Warm, comforting darkness. He knew that was not a good sign, so he tried fighting it away. Either ways, he never liked warmth. He would rather take a dip in a glacier pool than a hot water spring. He remembered the darkness being there, sometimes pressing down on him with all its might, sometimes hovering lightly before him, giving him respite. He had fought the darkness, and survived.

He sat up straight now, ignoring the pain in his head, and the sudden dizziness, and looked around the room. A blonde man was standing with his back towards the bed, holding a glass of water. As if reading his thoughts, the blonde man-no, Doctor Watson- turned to face him, and held out the glass of water for him. He gulped down the water, and then gestured for more.

After making sure he was comfortable, Doctor Watson made him lie back in the bed. He took in all aspects of the Doctor. Training or applied recently for army. Army doctor then. Trained at Bart's. Healthy and young. Probably might go to war soon. Has a sister who gives him trouble and a mother too. No father. Living with family. And, the last thing was the most startling to read. He was very angry.

Doctor Watson began to interrogate, and then lecture Sherlock.

"Do you even know the value of life?" John asked Sherlock.

"Hm.. Yes, I do. Why do you ask?" The young man replied almost dismissively, like as though it was not as important as staring at him right now.

"Then will you give me an explanation as to why you tried to kill yourself?"

His words seemed to shock the young man. He opened his mouth, as if about to reply, but then shut it almost instantly. He opened it again, this time giving an answer.

" I was not trying to take my life. I was testing my limits. Apparently, this is my limit."

"Your limits? My god- You are a madman, not a junkie. A totally insane person."

"Actually, it is a high functioning sociopath"

John almost growled now.

"Look here, Curly. I don't care if you are a sociopath or a psychopath. All that I am asking you is why did you try to kill yourself? Do you even know how many people are out there, fighting for their lives, while you are sitting here, slowly giving away yours? Wasting it. You should not be doing this, but I am not a counsellor. No, all that I am going to tell you is, You come under my care again, because you did another overdose, or even did drugs, I will personally ensure that you are not saved next time. Am I clear?" There. He managed to remove it all from himself.

John felt better, much better. His spirits lifted even more when he saw the young man meekly nod, instead of smirking and answering him like how he did before. But what piqued his interest was the fact that, on mentioning his almost death, the young man looked surprised, as though he was not expecting it.

John turned around, and sat down on the sofa.

"Actually, I was not trying to kill myself at all. It's just that, doing so much, I must have been too weak to handle that much. Therefore, my heart would have given away."


	4. Reactions

Sherlock was stunned. He tried to kill himself? That was impossible. But the doctor kept saying it over and over. That means that he would have had a cardiac arrest. Oh well, now that the doctor was done talking, he was going to explain.

After giving out his explanation, they sat in silence. The doctor seemed to be absorbing every detail. Finally, he got up from his seat, and stood near the bed.

"John Watson. Nice to meet you."

"Sherlock Holmes, pleasure."

"If I may ask, was the person your brother by any chance?"

Sherlock hesitated a bit. He should not be telling a random doctor about his brother. But, after a few nanoseconds, he replied, " Yes".

" Well then, you should contact him. He seemed very upset by you." Doctor Watson, or John, seemed genuinely concerned by his brother's behaviour. Sherlock did not like this one bit.

" I will." He said now, in the most icy tone he could muster. He noticed John looking at his watch. Perhaps his shift was over. He saw John adjust a few dials on his bedside, and give an injection into his drip. Then, wordlessly, he left.

Sherlock reached out for his phone, and opened it. He dialled Mycroft's number, and sent him just one text.

_Still succumbing to emotions, brother dear. –SH_

The medicine seemed to take effect now. Sherlock usually had a very high tolerance for drugs, so, by his guess, they would have administered triple the normal dose to affect him. He felt drowsy. A little while later, he was asleep again, his curls lying all over the pillow.

He did not notice his brother as he entered the room, and looking at him. Mycroft ran his hand affectionately through Sherlock's curls, before exiting the room again. He had stood outside the door, and listened to the entire conversation between Doctor John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Some part of him hoped that Sherlock would learn from his mistake now. Another hoped that his little brother, every inch the cold, calculating machine he was, had made a friend.

He entered his car again, this time noticing that Anthea was busy texting. On hearing him enter, she looked up, a question on her face. He smiled and nodded. She smiled back at him, and went back to messaging again.


End file.
